


And the dawn finds us unmoored

by ForTheLoveOf



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Drift Side Effects, Ghost Drifting, M/M, Post-Drift (Pacific Rim), Post-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), a little smutty a little angsty, in which the boys have a moment in the aftermath, please enjoy my own personal brand of melancholy, this was meant to be entirely soft but it ran away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 10:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15772635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForTheLoveOf/pseuds/ForTheLoveOf
Summary: He ends up in the empty mess hall, after. Lopsided hips, fingers tapping out a rhythm he hasn't heard before on the spine of his walking stick.It's the first day of the end of the war.





	And the dawn finds us unmoored

He ends up in the empty mess hall, after. Lopsided hips, fingers tapping out a rhythm he hasn't heard before on the spine of his walking stick.

_There are no gods left. There are no gods left. We have driven them out._

It leaves him nauseous, has him taking a long moment to rearrange himself around the single, fixed point of his cane-grip. Waiting for the world to right itself once more.

Dulled cheers carry from one of the corridors. The last few stragglers making their way back to quarters on unsteady legs.

It's the first day of the end of the war.

_We have driven them all out._

A hand lands on the dip of his back and lingers. He ought to be surprised, he supposes. Ought to pretend to be, at least.

"Here, man."

He feels himself tired instead. Accepts the offered cup with a soft hum. Green tea. Plain. He knows it's unsweetened before taking the first sip. It smarts on his tongue. A distant part of him notes the hand on his back hasn't moved yet.

He's glad for the styrofoam once he realises his own hands are still shaking. Brings it flush to his chest, lets the heat seep through the layers of wool there.

_And at last I called them by their names, and they did not come._

"Thank you, Newton." It's practically pulled from him as he takes a small step back, allows his shoulders to sag against the wall. The hand follows, cushions the low curve of his spine from the concrete.

"No worries, man." Newton's voice feels nearer, now. Quiet, even. Hermann absently wonders when it was he decided to close his eyes. "Hey, are you- I mean. How are you?"

The scent of hair gel is mingling with the steam and suddenly he's stretched thin, stretched much too far. _They did not come. They did not come. I think they're dead._ He leans into Newton with a sigh, follows the unmistakable stench of cheap product, follows the way his breath stutters back to his throat.

"Herm-" and it might've gone far enough to make Newton start, he imagines, except the arm around his waist is now holding him tighter, _closer_ and so he chooses to swallow his own name at the source.

It's a broken sound Hermann manages to tear from him, then, lips pressing hard against his pulse-point. He's greeted with the smell of soap, can picture Newton perfunctorily washing his face, styling his hair back after putting the kettle on. Something clatters down a different floor in a different room, and he catches himself crowding Newt a moment later. They must've moved because his leg gives out a twinge in protest when both his hands push Newton against something cold and solid.

He gets another gasp for all his trouble, rewarded with more pressure on his back now, and he can taste the salt on Newton's skin, trails fingers through the dirt and soil clinging to his still-soaked shirt before he finds himself drowning in iron and _they're dead they're dead they're dead_.

It's the warm hand on the back of his neck that grounds him. He can't tell how long it's been since his body started trembling. Decides to focus on the ebb and flow of Newton's fingers in his hair when the next shudder hits him. He finally catches up with the erratic voice above him, a white noise of _okays_ and _it's alrights_ washing over him like the tide.

"Thank you, Newton" he manages, and it burns on the way out. _Had he been crying?_ The shirt under him is just as wet as before, both fists now balled up in blood-stained cotton.

It's just an impulse, he knows, _he knows_ , but he untangles one set of digits all the same, moves his palm along the abused fabric. Splays it _just so_. Right on the centre of Newton's rib cage. Right over, and he holds his breath now, straining, an impossible heartbeat.

"Hermann."

It's not the worry there that troubles him, he thinks. It's that it belongs to him. The fingers in his hair tense up a little.

"Thank you," he mouths into the skin. _Thank you_ , Hermann prays now, holds on tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> _NUBIAN: The gods of my country are very fond of blood. Twice in the year we sacrifice to them young men and maidens; fifty young men and a hundred maidens. But it seems we never give them quite enough, for they are very harsh to us.  
>  CAPPADOCIAN: In my country there are no gods left. The Romans have driven them out. There are some who say that they have hidden themselves in the mountains, but I do not believe it. Three nights I have been on the mountains seeking them everywhere. I did not find them. And at last I called them by their names, and they did not come. I think they are dead.  
> — Oscar Wilde, Salomé_
> 
> At least one of the boys has read the complete works of Wilde because I’m gay & I say so.


End file.
